


all this worn-out leather

by WhiteMizerable



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Making Up, Pre-Rogue One, spiritassassin 2017 exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10539804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteMizerable/pseuds/WhiteMizerable
Summary: It has been ten years since they last saw each other.Ten years is a long, long time.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roselightsaber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/gifts).



> For the prompt "I thought it would be easier to hide from a blind man."

They sit together, their backs against the makeshift pallet Chirrut has been using for a bed, and though the distance between them is small, close enough that he could shift his hand and brush against Baze’s side, it feels like a gaping chasm. Unending. Insurmountable. 

 

He is simultaneously too hot and too cold, as if jagged shards of ice are prickling at his pounding heart. Jedha is alive outside the thin walls of his shelter, the marketplace rising with the dawn, but the only sound he can focus on is Baze’s slow, even breaths. He feels like he is waiting, though he doesn’t know for what. Baze has never been one to break this kind of charged silence. Chirrut doubts that even ten years away could be enough to change that.

 

Then again, what does he know? Ten years ago, he never thought that Baze would turn his back on him, on what they had together, on everything they stood for, either. The thought sends a hot flare of anger rushing through him. His hands curl into fists.

 

“So,” he says, cutting through the quiet for the first time since Baze showed up at his door. The words come out like a blade. “You have returned.” Baze’s steady breathing falters, and Chirrut takes vindictive pleasure in the sound.

 

“I have.” The rumble of Baze’s voice is different than Chirrut remembers. More tired, maybe. Heavy.

 

There is another silence. Chirrut’s lips curl into a grin that is anything but happy. “So that’s it. You have nothing else to say to me?” Fury sets sparks alight beneath his skin, and he pushes himself to his feet, the adrenaline pulsing too wild to stay seated. “It has been ten years, Baze Malbus. Ten long years. Do you have nothing to say in your defense? No words to explain yourself?”

 

“Chirrut,” Baze says. He sounds even wearier. He does not sound apologetic.

 

Chirrut breaths in deep and listens. He hears the sound of thick cloth moving as Baze shifts, hears the way Baze’s breathing has not quite resettled, hears the sounds of life outside. “Get out.”

 

Baze stills, every quiet sound he’s been making coming to an abrupt halt. “Chirrut,” he says again, “I-”

 

“No,” Chirrut snaps. “Get out of my house.” It is not really a house, he knows, barely a hovel, but it is his, and Baze has no place within its walls. When Baze does not start to move at once, Chirrut grabs for his staff and brandishes it fiercely. “I said, get out.”

 

This time, Baze goes, though his motions are reluctant and halting. The flimsy door shuts behind him with an unsatisfying click. Chirrut stands before it, listening for the heavy tread of footsteps walking away. The sounds of life from outside are deafening, pounding at his eardrums, and but those retreating footsteps overpower it all. Each one feels like a blow to the chest. On leaden feet, he walks back to his pallet and draws his knees to his chest.

 

Chirrut covers his ears and tries not to shatter.

 

**

 

Once he feels less likely to fall apart- and it takes far, far longer than he would like- Chirrut sets out for one of his favorite begging spots. It’s a nice one, right on the main streets, close enough to the market to catch its traffic yet far enough away to avoid getting lost in the crowds. He takes his usual seat on a low wall in the sunlight. The faint warmth is not nearly enough to cut through the ever-present chill of Jedha’s air, but he appreciates the feeling of the rays on his face all the same.

 

The Force is kind that day, sending generous traveler after generous traveler past his seat, and before long, his bowl is full of credit chips and small trinkets. Chirrut shakes it and smiles to himself at the clatter. This will be more than enough for a warm dinner. Perhaps he will even be able to buy one for another soul in need.

 

But he does not have long to revel in that pleasure, for moments later the sound of heavy footsteps catch his attention. His smile drops. He resolutely ignores the presence now standing a few feet behind him, instead calling out to a passerby and holding out his bowl. This time, though, he gets no kind words in return.

 

“This is what you have been reduced to?” Baze asks from behind him. “Begging for change by the side of the road?”

 

“I tell fortunes, too,” Chirrut replies with forced cheer, his grip tightening on his bowl. “Would you like to hear yours?”

 

“Chirrut-”

 

“The Force moves very clearly around you,” Chirrut continues, louder now. “Oh, yes, there is no mistaking it. Your nights will be cold and your days lonely. You will have no lover to keep you warm.” Baze starts to speak again, but Chirrut barrels on, growing louder still. “It’s all very sad, because the Force also tells me that it is your own fault.”

 

There is a moment of quiet in which Chirrut focuses on the sharpness of Baze’s carefully controlled breaths as he tries to calm his own racing heart. It is strange to think about how comforting he once found Baze’s presence. He does not allow himself to think about how familiar it still is now.

 

“So it’s my fault that you are forced to beg for your dinner?”

 

“No,” Chirrut says, irritation flaring back up again. “That is upon the Empire’s head. Your fault lies in the fact that you have not been here begging by my side.”

 

Baze grunts, and Chirrut knows he is scowling. “You mean to guilt me for leaving.”

 

“Do I need to?”

 

Another silence. It is not as satisfying as Chirrut hoped. If anything, it aches.

 

Abruptly, he feels tired. The rays of the sun are still faintly warm upon his face, but the day weighs heavy on his heart, and his shoulders sag with weariness. He wants nothing more than to return to the solitude of his home and curl up beneath his thin blankets.

 

“Why are you here, Baze?” he asks with a sigh.

 

“Let me buy you dinner.”

 

The weight on Chirrut’s shoulders grows heavier yet. “No.” He pushes himself to his feet, cradling his bowl against his hip with one hand and using his staff to feel along the ground with the other.

 

“Why not?” Baze steps forward, his boots crunching in the sand. “Chirrut-”

 

Without hesitation, Chirrut flips his staff up from the ground and points it in Baze’s direction. Unless he is highly mistaken, and he knows he is not, the heavy base hovers only a hairsbreadth from Baze’s brow. “I said no,” he says again. His voice comes out far calmer than the turmoil within his chest should allow. “Leave me be, Baze Malbus. I want nothing from you.”

 

He does not hear Baze’s footsteps following him as he starts down the street, as he meets another beggar, as they make their way to a street stand for an early dinner of warm stew, as they part ways and he heads back to the shack he calls home. But he feels Baze’s presence, a quiet point of awareness at the back of his mind, and he knows that Baze has not left the city. Not yet.

 

He doesn’t know if he likes the way that makes him feel.

 

***

 

The next day, he returns to the same begging spot. The Force guides him there, throwing obstacles in his way every time he tries to head a different direction, whether they be in the form of crumbling architecture or sudden vicious gusts of wind or thick crowds that refuse to disperse. It is with a deep sense of foreboding that he takes his seat upon the low wall.

 

And soon enough, he hears the tell-tale sound of heavy boots coming up behind him. His heart clenches painfully within his chest. He waits for Baze to say something. Another offering of food, perhaps.

 

But this time, Baze remains quiet. He doesn’t move, nothing more than the subtle shift of his weight and the accompanying creak of whatever new weaponry or armor he now carries, and Chirrut cannot even feel the weight of his gaze on his back. Somehow, this only serves to aggravate him more.

 

“I have no need for your protection,” he says tersely, then immediately berates himself for breaking his own cold silence.

 

A sound, clothing and metal moving minutely in what must be a shrug. “I know,” Baze replies. “You don’t want anything from me.”

 

“Then why are you here?”

 

For a moment, Baze says nothing, and Chirrut draws in a deep breath, unsure whether or not it’s to calm himself down or to prepare for confrontation, but then-

 

“I am not the only one who made mistakes ten years ago.”

 

The words come like a punch to the gut. Chirrut takes another deep breath, this one unsteady. His fingers clench around his begging bowl. He feels unmoored, as though gravity has suddenly released its hold on him, and he can’t seem to find his way back to solid ground. He opens his mouth, but only silence escapes.

 

“I told you what I was planning,” Baze continues after a minute. “I asked you to come with me. Do you remember what you said?”

 

He does, though not clearly. Ten years is a long time. But he can recall the anger, the way his carefully cultivated calm crumbled at Baze’s words, the way he cursed and goaded until Baze was cursing in return. He remembers the feeling of the ceramic bowl leaving his hand and the sound of it shattering against the wall, and how he stepped upon one of the shards after Baze stormed outside. And he knows intimately well just how cold a loving home can become.

 

He swallows. “You never came back.”

 

“You told me not to.”

 

The anger is gone now. All Chirrut feels is an empty, gaping, aching void within him. “Why are you here, Baze?”

 

Baze breathes out a heavy sigh. “This is still my home. Where else would I go?”

 

“I have no apologies for you.”

 

“Nor I for you.”

 

A group of travelers walk past them on the road, their mismatched shoes scuffing through the dust and sand and their voices raised in happy chatter that seems out of place in the solemn air. The jarring difference reminds Chirrut of the bowl resting forgotten upon his knee. He squares his shoulders, forces steel into his spine. This will not break him.

 

“You are scaring everyone away,” he says, and is grateful that his voice comes out firm. “Either you leave or I will. I mean to eat tonight.”

 

“Fine,” Baze says, just as stoically. “If you refuse to listen, I won’t bother trying.”

 

Without another word, Baze moves away, his footsteps crunching out into the street. Chirrut tries to turn his attention to the cold wind, to the sounds of the market, but all he can hear are those steps. He grasps for the Force and tries to focus his energy on meditation. Breathe in. Breathe out.

 

It does not work.

 

***

 

Chirrut settles in at a different spot the next day. The alms are not as plentiful there, but he persists, unwilling to give in. He half expects to hear Baze coming up the road.

 

Baze does not come.

 

***

 

The next day, another spot.

 

No Baze.

 

Chirrut tells himself that this is a good thing.

 

***

 

A third day. Still no Baze.

 

Chirrut’s fingers ache where they clutch tight to his staff. He is fine, he thinks fiercely. He does not want anything from Baze Malbus.

 

***

 

All is as the Force wills it. If Baze comes to him, so be it. Chirrut refuses be the one searching.

 

Heavy steps start towards him, and he is climbing to his feet before he realizes what he’s doing. 

 

It’s not Baze. He curses himself quietly.

 

***

 

After a week of this, Chirrut gives up. Obviously the Force does not want him to turn his back on Baze. There is no sense trying to fight it. All he has to do is find the man, suffer through the inevitable confrontation, and then get back to his life. Perhaps Baze will even leave after he doesn’t get what he wants. Chirrut will not put it past him. He refuses to acknowledge the way the thought hurts.

 

There is only one problem. He does not know how to find Baze. He cannot even ask any of Jedha’s other occupants, for he has no idea what Baze looks like now. The man he knew- the man he loved- has undoubtedly changed over the course of ten years. Are his clothes still soft from years of use? Is his hair still cut short, just long enough to run fingers through? Are there still smile lines at the corners of his mouth, the beginnings of wrinkles at the edges of his eyes? Or has all that been left behind? Does that Baze now only exist in Chirrut’s memories?

 

Chirrut tells himself that it doesn’t matter. He grasps his staff tightly enough to make his knuckles burn and sweeps the end out across the street before him. He doesn’t know what the Force means for him to get out of this, but he puts his faith in it all the same. It will guide him to where he needs to be. Even if he does not want to be there.

 

He walks. He does his best not to consciously choose his direction, only following the path his feet naturally take. It does not take long for the familiar sounds and smells of the city center to fade away. The ground becomes rougher, his staff bumping against protrusions of rock and piles of sand and other things he does not want to think about, and his steps slow as he maneuvers through it all. He feels the weight of many stares following him through the streets.

 

The end of his staff hits something solid. Architecture, if he’s not mistaken, and a brief exploration with his staff proves it. He taps his way to one corner. This is where the Force guided him. But where is Baze? He lifts his head, straining his ears to pick up any telltale sounds.

 

Then he hears it. Metal. Cloth. Weight shifting from one leg to the other.

 

“I thought it would be easier to hide from a blind man.” 

 

Ten years ago, the words would have made Chirrut smile. Even now, they tug at the corners of his lips. But it’s not enough. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten who you are dealing with,” he says, not a trace of humor in his voice.

 

Baze, on the other hand, chuckles, quiet but amused, and Chirrut’s heart skips at the sound. It is not the same as it was, all those years ago, and yet it is so familiar that he feels as if they have skipped backwards in time. He half expects to hear the sound of the temple chimes, or initiates sparring playfully in the gardens.

 

“I could never forget you,” Baze says. “I was just not expecting you to come searching for me at all. You said you wanted nothing to do with me, so I kept out of your way.”

 

A hint of embarrassment burns up through Chirrut’s body. “You wanted to talk to me. I thought I might as well listen.” 

 

“You? Listen?”

 

Chirrut bristles. “If you don’t want me here-”

 

“Come inside.” Baze moves, cloth and metal shifting, and the door creaks. Chirrut hesitates, just for a moment, before guiding himself up the few stairs and into the building.

 

The place is small. Chirrut does not need to tap around with his staff to know that, not when his legs bump against the table on his first step inside. He follows its edge, wary now, until his foot brushes against what feels like a low stool. He steadies it with one hand and sits down, crossing his arms over his chest. Waiting.

 

“You are too old to act like a petulant child,” Baze says, brushing against his back as he steps further into the small space. Chirrut hears the shuffle and quiet groan of him removing something, and the thud of metal being set down on the stone floor.

 

“I should act my age like you, carrying blasters around?” He doesn’t uncross his arms. “Should I cast aside all my other teachings as well? Leave the temple in the dust as I go gallivanting through the galaxy?”

 

“Is that what you think I was doing?” Baze asks. He moves again, this time to the far side of the table, and the room fills with the sounds of him rifling through cabinets. “Gallivanting?” A tap turns on, and a slow trickle of water drums against ceramic.

 

Chirrut frowns. “Are you making tea?”

 

Cloth shifts- a shrug, no doubt. “I invited you inside. I haven’t forgotten my manners.”

 

The simplicity of the answer throws Chirrut off further. His anger, already a mere shade of what it was when Baze first came to his house, ebbs away into confused irritation. “Manners? Now? I thought-” He waves one hand vaguely in the air. “I didn’t think-”

 

“You thought we would be fighting again.”

 

The truth settles cold inside him. “Yes.” He recalls again the way they parted, the vicious words and his own violence. Is that truly what he wants now? He doesn’t know. “You knew I would never leave with you. I could never turn my back on this city.”

 

“And I would never have been able to stay.” The scent of brewing tea wafts through the air.

 

“Why?” Chirrut demands, and is alarmed by how broken his voice comes out. He taps his staff against the floor, agitated.

 

Baze sighs. “I wanted to make a difference.”

 

“And you couldn’t make a difference here?”

 

“They destroyed the temple, Chirrut,” Baze growls. “They killed the Jedi. They threw us out in the street.”

 

“But that does not mean you couldn’t have helped.” Chirrut shoves himself to his feet, ignoring the sound of the stool toppling over behind him. “We protected our people. We gave them food, shelter, what they needed to survive. When the Empire came knocking on their doors, we were there to help them. We did not abandon them to go running around the galaxy-”

 

“Do you know what I did with my blaster?” Baze storms away, his footsteps heading to where he dropped the metal object earlier. The table groans beneath its weight when he drops it before Chirrut. “Do you know what I do? I protect people. All over the galaxy, I protected them. When they had no one else, I was there.”

 

Chirrut slams his staff against the floor. “And that’s all? You defend the helpless, and yet you still have enough credits to go from planet to planet? Do they shower credit on you for your bravery and selflessness?”

 

“You know what I did.”

 

He does, even though a part of him hopes he is wrong. “I want you to say it.”

 

Baze growls again. “I took bounties. I killed people for money to survive. Are you happy?”

 

“Good people?” Chirrut demands. His pulse pounds in his ears.

 

“No. Only Empire targets.” Baze draws in a deep breath, then lets it out again. “We’re fighting again.”

 

“Of course we are.” But Chirrut can already feel the anger draining away once more. “Do you regret it?”

 

“Killing them? No.”

 

“Taking the money.”

 

“I took nothing from those who couldn’t afford to give it.”

 

With a sigh, Chirrut turns to grope about for the stool. “Then I suppose you haven’t given up on all of your teachings, at least.” He rights it and sits down once again. “Where is that tea?”

 

Baze huffs out an unamused laugh. But he turns away, fabric shifting, and starts to pour the tea. Chirrut listens to each and every sound, making sure to ground himself in the here and now. If he is not careful, he knows he would risk his mind venturing back to the many times they sat together before, the laughter and the love and Baze’s knees against his own beneath the table.

 

He yearns. He grips his staff tighter and presses his lips tightly shut.

 

A cup clinks upon the table before him, bringing with it the smell of fragrant, if cheap, tea. Baze does not sit. Chirrut realizes with some surprise that he is sitting on the only seat in the little room. How little money has Baze made, he wonders, that he cannot afford a nicer place to stay? He struggles to realign the Baze that stands before him with the one he expected.

 

They do not match up. It’s infuriating. His heart begins to hope.

 

“Have you done nothing but help the needy and beg for your dinner since I left?” Baze asks, drawing him out of his thoughts. His voice is neutral, no hint of judgment, but Chirrut hears the pointed remark behind it.

 

He sighs and picks up his tea. “I have done a few things to survive.” Before Baze can say anything, he adds, “Things that the Force guided me to do.”

 

“Of course.” Now Baze sounds tired. He says nothing more.

 

Chirrut clutches his tea between his hands, breathing in the scented steam. He doesn’t want to ask, but he needs to know. “You don’t believe in the Force anymore, do you?”

 

“No. I can’t. Not now.”

 

And that… It hurts, knowing that this is something they no longer share, but Chirrut understands. He does not like it, he cannot quite accept it, but he understands. Perhaps that will be a fight for another day. For now, he keeps quiet and drinks his tea.

 

Several minutes pass in silence. Chirrut listens to Baze’s breathing, to the slosh of tea in their cups. He feels the Force around them. It curls between, guiding him forward, and though he knows Baze cannot, or maybe simply will not, feel it, Chirrut has no doubt it is guiding him forward as well.

 

This time, it is Baze who breaks the quiet.

 

“I didn’t abandon you,” he says. “I would never abandon you.”

 

Chirrut frowns into his cup. “You left me alone. You never came back.”

 

“You threw a plate at the wall. You told me to leave.”

 

“I-” But there is no denying it. Chirrut ducks his head towards his chest. “I am sorry about the plate. I never should have taken things that far.”

 

Baze sighs. “I don’t expect an apology from you, you know. That is not why I came looking for you.”

 

“Then what do you want?” The question feels painfully familiar by now. Chirrut has lost track of how many times he has asked it during these last few days, both to Baze and to himself. He is tired of the way it rolls off his tongue.

 

“The same thing I have always wanted.” Baze’s cup clinks against the table. “You, Chirrut. Just you. In whatever way you will have me.”

 

Chirrut brings his tea to his lips and takes a sip, giving himself a moment to calm his jumbled thoughts. His hands shake. “I have had other men since you left.” The words are just words, simple fact without weaponization, and his chest aches a little less once they’re out in the air.

 

Baze hums. “As have I.” A statement of fact, nothing more. Chirrut’s chest eases further. “But I have never once stopped loving you.”

 

Another sip. Chirrut imagines the old Baze speaking those words, the one he has loved since childhood, and finds that Baze blending into the one who stands with him now. They are one and the same. Not even ten years apart can change that, no matter what has happened between them.

 

His heart swells. As foolish as it is, he loves this man.

 

But that does not mean that ten years can be easily overlooked. He sets his cup carefully down. Hands now free, he reaches out in Baze’s direction. “May I?”

 

“Of course.” Baze catches his hands and guides them to his face.

 

The first thing Chirrut notices is that he is no longer clean-shaven. He traces his fingers along the bristly mustache and beard, memorizing the way it feels against his skin. Then he continues up, over familiar cheeks, until he comes to a scar beneath one eye. He freezes.

 

“It’s a long story,” Baze says gently. He guides Chirrut’s hand up further.

 

Chirrut wants to argue. He wants to demand to know. But he holds his tongue, for now at least, and allows himself to be redirected. He traces up along the bridge of Baze’s nose, over his forehead, and- “Oh,” he says, surprised, as his fingers slide into long, wiry hair.

 

“I grew it out.” Baze sounds amused.

 

“Yes, I noticed.” Chirrut runs his fingers down through the strands, testing their length, and is surprised again to find some of them parted into leather-bound braids at either side of Baze’s face. It is… different. But he cannot deny that he likes the way it feels against his hands. He has no doubt that it looks good.

 

He tugs gently on one braid. “Have you cut it at all since you left?”

 

“A few times. You don’t like it?”

 

“No, I do.” He brings his hand back to Baze’s cheek, running his thumb across the scar again. “And I must admit, I never stopped loving you, either.”

 

He feels the curve of Baze’s smile against his palm. He remembers kissing that smile, so many years ago. But he’s not ready for that.

 

Not yet.

 

“I still don’t know where you’ve been.”

 

“I will tell you,” Baze says. “Let me buy you dinner?”

 

Chirrut breathes out. He breathes in. He breathes out again. This is it, he thinks. This is the precipice, the point of no return. Whatever choice he makes now, he will not be able to take it back. Either he opens his life to Baze again, or he closes him out entirely.

 

The choice is obvious.

 

He smiles, just a little, and reaches down, and fumbles until he can grasp Baze’s hand in his own. The callouses are different, but it is big and warm and it feels so right against his skin that the whole galaxy seems to right itself, the Force realigning around them.

 

He feels, for the first time in ten years, as if he has a chance at finding home again.

 

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Eight months pass before Baze kisses him, standing under an overhang just outside the market during a sudden downpour.

 

Chirrut throws his arms around Baze’s neck and holds on tight.

 

***

 

Twelve months after that, they find a new living space together. It is tiny, and it is cold, and the winds rattle at the poorly constructed window, and there is barely enough space for the two of them to curl up together on the pallet that serves for their bed.

 

But Baze is there, and that makes it home.

 

***

 

Years later, standing together at the back of a shuttle, surrounded by young soldiers and air thick with fear and determination, Chirrut finds Baze’s hand with his own. He smiles as Baze brushes a kiss across his knuckles.

 

“I’m sorry,” Chirrut says quietly, “for not going with you.”

 

Baze hums low in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he replies, “for leaving you there.”

 

A planet called Scarif lurks below them, and the Force is dark with death, and Chirrut knows that they are not going to escape this, and he knows that Baze knows this too. But right then, with their hands clasped together, and Baze’s breaths steady at his side, he feels warm. 

 

There is no distance between them.

**Author's Note:**

> This absolutely took on a life of its own, and I've been editing it right up to the last second.
> 
> I know it's probably not what roselightsabers was expecting, and it's not exactly what I expected to write either, even if I am kind of fond of it, but I hope you like it!


End file.
